


love to the ghosts who taught me everything i know

by the_everqueen



Series: love to the ghosts [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Laurens Lives, Canon Era, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Suicidal Ideation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 20:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12396054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: in 18th c America we write letters





	love to the ghosts who taught me everything i know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herowndeliverance (atheilen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/gifts).



> thanks to Swan for her encouragement and help getting started <3  
> title from tmg's "unicorn tolerance"

_ My Dear Jack, _

_ I presume by now you have arrived safely in Virginia. Perhaps such is a bold assumption on my part, but I recall during the war your pen was infrequent and your father assures me you have not learned better habits since. I do hope you might spare a word during your stay, or at least prior to your return so that we know to expect you.  _

_ Frances is well. Last week the barn cat bore kittens, and she has taken to them, tying bits of ribbon about their necks and calling them fanciful names. She is especially enamored of the littlest; the other day I caught her sneaking him a dish of cream from the kitchen. I suspect given time I shall find him in her room. Despite this distraction, she continues in her lessons — in the weeks you’ve been gone, she has improved her French a good bit. You might consider writing her in the language and give her something new to practice.  _ ~~_ One of us at least should know you are alive, if not well. For god’s sake, Jack _ ~~

_ Forgive the blot, my pen slipped. We can’t all be scribes. _

_ Yr. dutiful wife, _

_ Martha _

  
  


John set down the letter. He thought he should feel something — namely, guilt — but in the close, tender place where it would bloom, there was instead a curious emptiness. Like his feelings had been amputated. He looked down at Mattie’s looping handwriting.  _ My Dear Jack. _ He ought to write. Before Father sent him a rebuke and the phantom limb started throbbing. Before Frances buried him, again.

(She hadn’t known him, when the ship came. Stared with blank unrecognition, his own eyes sizing him up and finding him wanting.)

On an impulse, he reached under his shirt and found the knot of scar tissue. His fingers pressed down into the manmade valley under his ribs, a hard jab to the spot where the bullet caught him. Jab, jab, jab. He should have died. Jab, jab, jab. He should feel something. 

He grit his teeth, digging in a nail.

“Jack.”

The drawling voice caught him unaware. John sucked in a breath, dropped his hand.

“You might knock.”

Thomas blinked at him, then shrugged, languid as a cat. “It’s my house. What has your garters twisted? You need another moment with your hand?”

“Got a letter.”

“From the Missus?” Thomas didn’t move toward the desk. In private, he collected gossipy tidbits like specimens, each pinned with exacting care to his scrapbooks — John was certain he existed at least as a footnote there, something damning or outlandish — but even in the constructed utopia of his home, where he wandered about in pajamas and slouched all over the place, he could not help performing Southern politeness. He had not asked John about Mattie or Frances; he never mentioned their correspondence, prior to John coming here.

Mattie thought Jefferson had summoned him on a matter of politics. 

John made a grunt of affirmation. Then added, “And Frances.” 

“Man, you oughta bring ‘em. She’s a year older than Patty?”

“Hm. Yeah.”

“That might be nice, having a girl around her own age.” Thomas nudged his shoulder. “You could watch the place, while I’m in New York preserving democracy. Jemmy tells me your boy is making a real mess of things.”

“He’s not mine.”

“Whatever. Sounds like he’s got some monarchical ambitions in his head.”

John thought of him at the bar, seething over rumors he was Washington’s bastard.  _ “I’ve got better ancestry than half these fuckers with titles.” _ He hadn’t denied the bastard part, though. John shook his head. “You need me to play house?”

“Nah. I mean, Patsy is old enough, she could manage. But if you want to escape politics.”

“Not possible.” His father was beginning to lose patience with his hiatus.  _ “Don’t be childish. Other people have interests in this country, they aren’t going to make it in your image.” _ He’d bought himself some time with law studies, but he’d failed to establish a practice and he hadn’t run for Congress, either. Hard to see his sudden withdrawal from public service after the Convention as anything but a sore loss.

_ “I didn’t die so  _ some _ could be free.” _

_ “You didn’t die, John.” _

Thomas was still talking, musing aloud just to hear his own voice, not actually looking for a solution anymore. “You could always become a citizen of Virginia and run for governor.”

“Oh yes,” John said, snide, “just need to be a good rider for that position.”

“That was a  _ tactical retreat _ . Congress cleared the charges.”

“Congress is a bunch of cowards.”

“You wanna talk cowardice —” Thomas pressed his lips together. Just like that the flare of anger died down into something more sullen; he took a step back, his shambling limbs folding like a puppet let lax on its strings. Something John had learned his first day at Monticello: Thomas didn’t like direct conflict, preferred his fights with a pen and kid gloves instead of fists. “If you aren’t gonna finish your letter, consider getting your ass downstairs for tea.”

John bared his teeth. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Not good enough. Thomas was already walking away.

John hated that about him. Alex would’ve fought back, bare knuckles and screaming words. Or at least, the Alex from the war, his Alex, would have. Hamilton the lawyer, the wannabe statesman, the soon-to-be Treasury Secretary — he would get that exasperated face and construct an argument like a bulwark against John’s attacks, voice getting heated and louder with impatience as minutes ticked past. No charge, real or imagined, could go unanswered; that was as good as admitting a fault. 

Thomas Jefferson was nothing like his Hamilton. That was the point.

_ He’s not yours, not anymore. _

John went downstairs.

  
  


_ Dear Jack, _

_ Still no word from you; I would suspect the post interferes with our correspondence except that Martha has received nothing either. I understand the political advantage of  _ silence,  _ but you might do well to remember one does not win a battle alone, that  _ allies _ are necessary for judgment as well as strength. Be cautious if you must, but do not leave me in the dark entirely as to the actions of my son. _

_ Is Jefferson yet making preparations to travel to New York? Word has it that Hamilton has been managing duties of State in his absence.  _ Some _ find this less than tasteful and suggest the duties of one office sufficient to keep a man occupied. Certainly his involvement in the war as well as the establishment of the current govt. demonstrate his patriotic zeal, and one cannot fault him for the application of his talents to the good of the nation. Take note: direct action suits a man more than idle wishes. Is it not deeds that prove his worth? Show me a man without works, etc. _

_ Henry _

  
  


Something else John had learned his first day at Monticello: Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence, obeyed orders in his own damn home.

Nothing reasonable, of course. Not  _ stop experimenting with pasta, you’ve made food inedible _ , or  _ get back in bed no one cares what the temperature is it’s still dark out. _ But useful commands, nonetheless, because if Jefferson couldn’t be goaded into a fight, he could at least be prompted to service. He understood  _ on your knees _ and  _ faster _ and  _ keep doing that, oh god, yes yes yes _ . 

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” John said. He stretched, feeling the crusted slick and sweat crack over his torso. “Clean that up.”

Thomas, bless his heart, knew better than to reach for a shirt or washcloth. 

He set to work with his tongue.

John watched with detached interest. After the fact, once the adrenaline and warm haze faded, the boredom crept back in, and he didn’t care whether Thomas cuddled him or left to check the thermometer. But Thomas didn’t like feeling as though he’d been dismissed from his own bed (his words, not John’s), so John let him lap at the sticky seed and cling at his naked hips. 

“You could have swallowed earlier,” John said, when the silence and dim morning light started getting to him.

“Shh,” Thomas murmured, as though their roles were reversed. It wasn’t that — John understood wanting someone else to take control, just be able to let go and not think, and he could give that to Jefferson. But he didn’t need it. Thomas did. 

So had Alexander.

John was not thinking about Hamilton.

Thomas worked toward his scar, his tongue probing and gentle at the edges and then, when John didn’t cry out, laved right down the center of the incision. Again and again, no pain, just mild pressure, kinder than John’s fingers.

John thought,  _ To hell with it. _

He grabbed a fistful of Thomas’s thick curls and pulled him up into a ferocious kiss.

  
  


Sitting down to breakfast with the Jefferson girls after he had debauched their father should have been awkward, but John had grown used to their presence in the house, and besides, he got along fine with kids so long as they didn’t have his eyes. Patty scooted her chair close so she could show him her latest sketches; he’d offhand given her some tips while fetching a book from the parlor, and she had applied them, her charcoal renditions of her father’s pet mockingbird coming to life with a bit of delicate shading and adjustment for perspective. He dished out eggs and corn cakes and commented on the ways she’d improved.

Patty giggled at the pile of food on his plate. “You must be hungry, Mister Laurens.”

“Colonel,” Patsy corrected.

“Jack,” Thomas said, taking a sip of coffee. “Or uncle, if you wish.”

John almost choked on his eggs. “Just Jack is fine.” 

Patty looked dubious. “It’s impolite to call adults by their first names.”

“Not if they tell you so,” Patsy said. She was doing something with her head, holding it at a peculiar angle, and it took John a moment to realize she was trying to appear older. He flushed. She was, what, seventeen? Almost a grown woman. She looked younger, though, had inherited her father’s gangliness as well as his high-strung temper. “Besides, it’s really impolite to point out how much food a guest is eating.”

“Ouch,” John said.

“You took most of the eggs. Also that’s your second cup of coffee.”

“Martha,” Thomas said, barest note of warning in his voice.

“I’m just saying. He spends most of the day in the house.”

“He gets his exercise.”

Patsy wrinkled her nose.

“I was a soldier,” John complained.

“And now you’re a statesman,” Thomas said. “It’s what happens when the men who tore down tyranny live to rebuild on its ruins.”

Except they hadn’t torn down all of it. And what, exactly, were they building if the foundation was compromised? 

He and Thomas had had this discussion numerous times, in letters, over tea, and once in the middle of a boeuf bourguignon so excellent John felt a surge of rage that the man who made it couldn’t go further with his talent. He ended up breaking a glass against the wall before storming off to his rooms. None of those times had they reached a feasible solution, but it felt good to agree on something as injustice and explore what might be done, instead of just talking about the repercussions of evil till Judgment Day. The machine of republic hadn’t been fully launched into effect; maybe there was still time to realize “all men created equal.”

John swallowed the last of his coffee. “We’re going for a ride after breakfast,” he said. 

Thomas grinned. “Whatever you want.”   

  
  


_ My Dearest Alexander, _

~~_ Sometimes I miss you so much I hate you _ ~~

~~_ You stopped writing you never stop you should have had the last word _ ~~

_ I did get your last letter, you know. Or, what would have been the last, if things had turned out different in that skirmish. You thought the post had lost it. I never told you because it seemed like too much, to acknowledge all the ways you tried and how it wasn’t enough. That wasn’t your fault, either. I’ve always been stubborn, for good or worse. _

~~_ I keep dreaming of the river _ ~~

_ You are the wordsmith of us; I haven’t the skill to bend my thoughts to paper so they look neat and bloodless for the record. See, there. I don’t mean bloodless, I meant unsoiled, or clean, but I can’t get my brain off the battlefield. You could do it, get into my head and align all the soldiers into rank and file, like you did for the General. And you, with your sense of honor, you wouldn’t even cheat to make your side look better. Like playing chess with yourself; you’d do it for the challenge, the game.  _

_ I hear you’re the General’s right-hand man once more. The war was easier, wasn’t it? At least then we could pretend the enemies were outside, wearing red instead of bloodied blue. We knew better — damn Congress and its useless, gaping mouths. But I’d rather starve getting something done, than whatever we’re doing now. Living, I guess. _

_ Look at that, I’m saying we.  _

_ Don’t forget to write. _

_ Yrs. _

_ John _

  
  


John did not send it; Hamilton, of course, did not respond.

**Author's Note:**

> a few notes:  
> 1) this is born out of a discussion with herowndeliverance as to what might happen to Laurens and Hamilton's relationship had John survived the Battle of Combahee.  
> 2) i'm playing fast and loose with time, but my proposed timeline of events leading to here (1789) goes thus: John survives, Martha and Frances come to America the following year, John works with Hamilton in politics but their ideological differences start to become prominent (i.e., Hamilton's pragmaticism over John's idealism), they both are chosen for the Constitutional Convention and fall out over the issue of slavery - John isn't willing to sign a document that upholds it, Hamilton argues it isn't perfect but is the only way to preserve the union. Jefferson reaches out to John after the convention and the federalist papers; part of Madison's plan to get another Southern state representative in their pocket, but he and John get along via correspondence, so Jefferson invites him to "visit" Monticello prior to him going to NY as State Secretary. at the time of this, Martha and Frances are staying in SC on the Laurens estate.  
> 3) confronted on the issue of slavery, historical Jefferson would likely have condemned it as morally wrong. his "Notes" include his ideas for gradual emancipation. however, this does not make him any less complicit in the violence toward and oppression of Black Americans. the same "Notes" also deny Black genius, intellect, and achievement, even in the face of contemporary examples such as the poet Phillis Wheatley. likewise, his plans for emancipation involved displacing Black Americans to a separate territory because he feared a possible uprising should they be freed. over the course of his life he held over 600 Black Americans enslaved; of these persons, he freed two during his life and five in the event of his death.  
> 4) this all to say, the historical founders were complicit in the enslavement and oppression of Black Americans. full stop. most of them would or did acknowledge the system as evil, and some took measures to end it, but their rhetoric does not have the same value as action. (also that John's discussions with Jefferson here hinge on the [erroneous] assumption that there WILL be positive action taken, and that to some extent they are on the same page ideologically.)  
> 5) there is a glancing reference in here to James Hemings, the brother of Sally. he also accompanied Jefferson on the trip to France, and during his time there learned the language and also received professional training under a chef and a pastry chef. it seems that while in France he also negotiated to receive paid wages upon his return to Virginia as well as his eventual freedom. Jefferson freed him in 1796, but James died five years later, an apparent suicide. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr @the-everqueen


End file.
